


Beaned

by TalkingGrape



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, but also college AU, but also semi no capes au, but also there are still heroes but some of them arent heroes and i do what i want, coffee shop AU, memelord tim drake, no beta we die like jason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalkingGrape/pseuds/TalkingGrape
Summary: Tim is whirlwind of half-baked thoughts, energy drinks, sticky-notes, and dated memes. Jason is the poor son of a bitch that thinks he can get close without being swept up in the storm.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 6
Kudos: 80





	Beaned

“You cannot be human.” Steph watches with a look of abject horror and amazement (but mostly horror) on her face as Tim mixes a Red Bull with a quad shot of espresso, using the nightmare concoction to down an Adderall. 

“You’re right, I’m more like the living embodiment of a liminal space.” He chugs the rest of his drink, only coming up for air once it’s gone. If he drinks it fast enough, he doesn’t have to taste what he’s doing to his body. 

The bell over the front door dings, signaling a new customer, and Steph and Tim quickly engage in combat (rock, paper, scissors) to decide who has to deal with them. Steph loses. She always goes rock. 

“Ugh, fine.” Rolling her eyes, she makes her way to the front counter, Customer Service Voice™ carrying through the small coffee shop as she speaks. “Hi welcome to Robin’s Brewed what can I- Oh. It’s you. Whaddya want.” So much for the Customer Service Voice™.

Tim comes out of his hiding spot to join Steph at the counter, pleasantly not-so-surprised to find Duke leaning over the spit guard and stealing a muffin. Steph only stops pretending to have a will to live in front of friends. “Hey, Duke.” 

“Hey, Tim. Man of the hour. My man. My main man,” is what Tim assumes Duke is saying around his mouth full of muffin.

He is not impressed. “Oh. So  _ that’s _ what you’re here for.” He crosses his arms, giving Duke a half hearted glare as the other finishes inhaling his muffin at frankly impressive speeds. “And here I thought you stopped in to partake in our fine selection of burnt coffee and  _ un _ complimentary baked goods.” He points at the price displayed under the tray of muffins in the display case. “Two ninety-nine, bitch.” 

“That muffin was not worth three dollars.” Still, Duke pulls out his wallet, grabbing a crumpled five and tossing it onto the counter. “So anyways. Will you?” 

Steph takes the money and drops it in the register, keeping the change. No one says anything about it because they all like having fingers and teeth. 

Crossing his arms, Tim leans forward and rests them on the counter. His veritable overdose of caffeine hasn’t hit him yet and he’s feeling sluggish. “Honestly? Probably not, dude. I have my own paper due at midnight, and I’m stuck working here ‘til close. So I’m kinda fucked enough without writing yours too. Plus, I don’t even know what yours is supposed to be on yet. If it’s on, like, why the Nazis were right, I’m definitely not fucking writing it.” 

“Okay one,” Duke holds up a finger. The middle one, “It is  _ not _ about the Nazis  _ at all. _ Two,” his index joins the middle, “it’s not due for another three days, I just don’t have time in the next three days to write it, and I know you’re a freak of nature that can write two K words in an hour if you have to. And three,” he holds up four fingers, because he is not a math major and numbers are hard, “I’ll pay double.” 

Tim’s only response is to hold out his hand expectantly, eyebrows raised. Duke huffs, rolling his eyes and fishing out his wallet again. A few seconds later, forty dollars land in Tim’s palm. In the great words of M.I.A.:  _ gunshot gunshot cash register noise _ . “Keep throwing around cash like this, and people are gonna start thinking  _ you’re  _ the one with rich parents.” 

“I think we both know that the wealth of the parents have nothing to do with the financial status of the child, Timberlands,” Steph cuts in, gesturing to the barista apron Tim is, unfortunately, wearing. 

“I’d rather eat dirt and sleep on soggy cardboard than give my parents the fucking satisfaction of following in their footsteps to become a problematic trust fund billionaire asshole that fucks fossils.” Saying that exact thing to Jack and Janet is probably what got Tim cut off in the first place, but hey, he’s getting by just fucking fine without them thank you very much. Even if he’s taken to working weird shifts at an on-campus coffee shop with a god awful pun for its name to work off his disgusting student debt, and sells plagiarized essays for a penny per word, and is probably addicted to  ~~baby meth Adderall~~ caffeine. He’s  _ fine. _

“God, I just want to eat dirt.” Steph hops up onto the counter, swinging her legs idly. 

“I think I can get you some sod, but dirt might be a little harder to pull off.” Tim pushes off from his spot on the counter, the familiar heart palpitations that come with being one of God’s Mistakes finally setting in as his blood is slowly replaced with Red Bull and espresso. “Anyways, Duke, send me the details on your assignment, otherwise you’ll have just paid me forty dollars to get you an F and I don’t do refunds.” 

“Yeah, sure thing. I gotta head out now,” he gestures over his shoulder with his thumb, pointing to the door like Tim and Steph don’t know where it is. Like it’s some kind of magical moving door that they can’t keep track of or something, “and do the thirty other assignments I can’t pay you to do for me. Enjoy your dirt.” The bell dings with Duke’s departure, leaving Tim and Steph alone to fend for themselves in the shop once again. 

Immediately, Tim turns on Steph, making his eyes as wide as he can and jutting out his bottom lip, a move he knows is twice as effective because his pupils are blown to hell with his insane caffeine intake. “Hey Stephie?” 

“Oh fuck, it’s the face. The fucking  _ face. _ ” Closing her eyes, Steph turns her head to avoid Tim’s adorable pleading eyes. “Whatever you want, fuck off, Timothy.” 

“I just need one tiny widdol favor from my favorite person in the whole world who I love so much and would die for. I would take a bullet for you, Stephie. Right now. If someone broke in, I’d jump in front of you and take a fatal shot to the heart and bleed out. And I’d bleed out really fast, because my heart is going fucking  _ nuts _ . I’d die for you, and you won’t even do one tiny little favor for me? Really Steph? That’s fucking cold. I see how it is. I see where I stand in our friendship-”

Steph cuts him off with a loud groan. “For fuck’s sake,  _ what do you want? _ ”

“Can you do all the closing tasks so I can work on my essay?” Keep your eyes big and innocent, Tim. She is less likely to strike a seemingly helpless opponent. 

“Tim, I would rather take a bullet to the heart.” She slides off the counter, shoulder checking him as she walks past, still pointedly not making eye contact. She is wise to his tricks. 

“I’ll give you half of Duke’s essay money.”  _ That _ finally gets her to pause. 

Turning back around with a raised eyebrow, Steph simply holds out a hand, palm up. Tim huffs, slapping a wrinkled twenty into her fingers. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

Tim’s only response is an exasperated eye roll. He grabs his laptop from the breakroom and sets up at a table near the counter so he can still bug Steph, because  ~~ he has ADHD ~~ he’s great at multitasking. He opens up his essay, of which he’s only written the word ‘the’ in size 72 Parisienne font. He assumes that that is not going to get him a decent grade, so he gets to work on bullshitting a six page essay on the (not so) subtle hints to gay themes in Fight Club that he’s sure will probably get him beat up by the one (1) straight guy in his Film Theory and Criticism class. Honestly that guy is hot as fuck though, and Tim would probably thank him for punching him in the throat. 

“Hey, Steph, I think we should start a fight club.” 

Steph pokes her head out from behind the espresso machine she’s currently wiping down. “I’d totally kick your ass, little man.” 

“Please, you and I both know I wouldn’t do any fighting. I’d be the mastermind, you’d be the muscle, we’d both be rich.” Tim has to erase the last few sentences in his essay where he accidentally transcribed his conversation with Steph. 

Steph pauses for a moment, considering the proposition. “Fair enough. I guess not many people would want to fight you anyways. You’re kind of a creep.” 

“I swear to god, you say ‘harder daddy’ during a fight in the Denny’s parking lot  _ one time- _ ”

“That was not a fight, that was a hate crime, that guy was trying to beat you to death and you thought it’d be funny to-”

“He stopped when I said it, though, didn’t he?” 

Steph throws her cleaning rag at Tim, hitting him in the side of the face. “He stopped for two seconds! I had to call the cops while Connor ran interference for your stupid ass-”

Balling up the rag, Tim is about to fucking annihilate Steph’s skull with it when the bell above the door chimes. Quickly, he tosses the rag back to Steph. She catches it smoothly, easily transitioning back to wiping down her station while Tim slams his laptop shut, gracefully slipping behind the counter and hiding the laptop beneath it as he turns to face the new customer. Despite the man looking for all the world like he could fucking RKO Tim through the floor and into the  _ earth’s molten core _ , Tim’s Customer Service Voice™ doesn’t falter. He plasters on a smile that he hopes isn’t vibrating like the rest of his skin as he speaks. “Welcome to Robin’s Brewed, what can I getcha?” 

He’s hoping the answer is  _ nothing _ because Steph is already cleaning up for the night and if they have to dirty up a machine to make a Single Drink, it is going to take a whole other twenty dollars to get her to finish doing the closing up while Tim writes his essay. 

The guy (absolute Greek God, Atlas himself, fucking Achilles just strolling into a college café like he belongs in one) looks down at time, because he’s fucking tall and Tim is… not. “I’m looking for Tim. Are you Tim?” 

Tim is about to drop the world’s most wicked witticism about his name being written on his nametag, when he remembers that  _ someone _ (cough, Steph, cough) wiped off his name and wrote Twinkle Toes on it instead. “Yeah. Yup. I’m Tim. Unless you want to hurt me- Tim- then I’m not Tim, and that guy can go fuck himself, what an asshole, hope you find him.” 

Steph snorts from behind the espresso machine, and God Among Men’s lips twitch up into a half smile. He sets his motorcycle helmet down on the counter, and Tim’s heart is now doing weird shit for different reasons other than the abuse of his prescription, because a  _ fucking motorcycle? Really? Come on.  _ Tim legitimately considered buying Heelys a week ago. 

Okay so Tim  _ bought _ Heelys a week ago. 

This guy is hot as fuck, cool as fuck, and Tim is gay as fuck. There’s really only one way this guy could get Tim to stop thinking sinful thoughts about him. “A commentary on the parallels between Don Quixote and vigilante life in inner city Gotham, between six and ten pages. How much?” 

And that’d be it. 

**Author's Note:**

> brood- a family of young animals, especially of a bird, produced at one hatching or birth
> 
> in case anyone didnt get my shitty pun. 
> 
> this fic will update casually, but im not gonna act like comments and kudos wont inspire me to try to post frequently. because then id be lying. im a sellout. i dont make money off of this, but i love attention.


End file.
